


Very Fire, A

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Surprising reversals, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled introspection, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:58:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Fingolfin and Feanor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Author's Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Dedications, Explanations, and Warnings

 

First, dedications.

Dedication #1 - To greenleaf-legolas, a good friend, great writer, and constant source of emotional support, whose birthday it is this week. This story seemed like a nicer birthday present than a bright, shiny ring (which I think I'll keep for myself anyway)

Dedication #2 - To Finch, Lady of the Footnote, for giving me all the material for this story and then telling me to write it. Many of the themes, images, and sources for this story are borrowed from hers, and chapter 1 started as a prequel to her stories 'Separation' and 'Under the Curse.' The characters have taken on a life of their own since then, though, so no guarantees about where they will end up.

In Finch's honour, this story will rely more heavily than usual on obscure details from footnotes in HoME, occasionally even when they contradict with the published Silmarillion. Flames about my canon decisions should be sent to the Silmfics group so we can discuss them properly.

 

Second, some helpful background for those of you who don't have the Silmarillion memorized.

Finwe was the King of the Noldor in Valinor. His first wife was Miriel, who gave birth to Feanor and died in the process (more or less - see Silmarillion 6 for details). She was the first Elf ever to die. Finwe then married Indis of the Vanyar, and had four children with her, including Fingolfin and Finarfin. The eldest child of Finwe and Indis, a daughter, joined her mother's people, leaving Fingolfin as the eldest of the children of Indis among the Noldor. 

According to an apocryphal legend recorded in Morgoth's Ring, so that Finwe could marry Indis without being an adulterer, the Valar required Miriel to give up any hope of ever taking living form again. While there are severe difficulties in the transmission of this narrative, and it may not reflect the Valar's actual decision (and I hope it did not), young Feanor could have heard it, and believed it. See my story 'On the Making of Fire' for some thoughts about how this might have affected him.

 

Third, a note on Laws and Customs.

In this story I will occasionally refer to Elven marriage customs. These are based on my (sometimes creative) interpretation of 'Laws and Customs of the Eldar' in Morgoth's Ring. My take on this document is that it was of Valinorian origin, and reflects the customs of the Noldor of Valinor. Other groups may have different customs, and some of these customs probably fell by the wayside even among the Noldor once they were in Beleriand. Even among the Noldor of Valinor I would expect that they were followed imperfectly, like all rules.

 

Finally, the warnings.

I refuse to say that this is a slash story. I also refuse to say that this is not a slash story. This is all the warning you're going to get. It may get slashier in later chapters. It also may not. If you don't want to continue on these terms, you know what to do. 

There will be some sexual situations, nothing explicit enough to warrant an NC-17 rating, or even R in my opinion. Plenty of angst and disturbing emotions, but you know that already. 

This is looking to be quite a long story, probably the longest thing I've written yet. Just thought you should be warned. Blame it on the reviewers for chapter 1, who helped me see how much there is in this material to develop.

 

Many thanks to Cirdan and Kshar, my loyal and kind (and rapid) betareaders for this story. Also much gratituide to the Silmfics group for constant factchecking and brainstorming, and to Ithilwen and greenleaf-legolas for moral support.

 

I bow to the Great Professor Tolkien in gratitude for creating these wonderful and fascinating characters, and apologise for any misuse I may make of them in my story.


	2. Chapter 1: A Very Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

… its flames are flames of fire, a very fire of God. (Song of Songs 7:6)

  


  


 

  


"All the Noldor shine brightly with the radiance of Laurelin and Telperion. We all burn, and inside each one of us there is a flame, but none is like Feanor, who burns with the very fire of the One." So Fingolfin's father told him, and so he believed. Feanor raged at times, and shouted, and Indis comforted little Finarfin who was startled by the noise. Fingolfin was not afraid, even as a baby. Was not the rage also fire, the very brightness of Feanor?

In his youth Feanor wandered in the hills, or along the lonely shores of the sea. Sometimes Fingolfin would follow him to the beginnings of the forests. Feanor would twine together leaves to make him a crown, or shape a flower from grasses, and then send him home. But finally a day came when Fingolfin would not be turned aside. He was growing, and his body was becoming strong, and he begged his brother this once to be allowed to go with him.

"You would follow me, then, Son of Indis?" Feanor asked, flashing his dark smile. He pointed to a cliff that rose on the far side of the plains. "I am going to climb that. Do you believe you can follow me?"

__

Do you believe I have no courage? Fingolfin thought. "Where you go I will follow," he said confidently. Feanor raised an eyebrow, but brought his brother with him to the base of the cliff. It was nearly straight, with nothing for a climber to grasp. Feanor took out his knife. "Watch," he said with a smirk.

He carved out handholds as he climbed. As one hand held him in place, the skilled fingers of the other used the knife to form a place to rest his feet. And so he climbed quickly, creating a path as he went. When he reached the top he sat on the edge of the cliff, his feet hanging over, and stretched out his arms to Fingolfin. "Come, Brother," he called.

Fingolfin did not hesitate. He grabbed the newly formed handholds one after another, pulling himself up. Soon he was far above the ground. A foothold broke. Fingolfin cursed, knowing that Feanor was far too clever a craftsman to create a fragile path by accident. He looked up and Feanor was still there, smiling enigmatically. The ground stretched below Fingolfin, the mystery of his brother above. He deliberated for a moment, then continued the climb with renewed energy.

When he neared the top he saw the upper handholds were gone. Feanor reached out his hands. Fingolfin hesitated for a moment, and then took them.

Feanor's hands were hot to the touch. The light of Laurelin was waning, and that of Telperion was growing in strength. Both lights merged in Feanor's eyes, and were consumed by a third light that was not of Valinor. Fingolfin could see the ground so far beneath him. No Elf had yet died of violence, but even Fingolfin knew that there were some things even an Elven body could not survive. Feanor's hands were steady, but he made no move to lift up his brother. They remained there for a time, motionless, not speaking.

"And why should I lift you up, then, Son of Indis?" Feanor asked after a time.

Fingolfin knew he was being tested. He feared less the drop below than the hardness in his brother's eyes. _Son of Indis._ "Because I want to be with you."

Feanor laughed again, not a cruel laugh as before, but a laugh, perhaps, of comfort. He pulled Fingolfin over the cliff-top and fell backwards with him on the grass. Fingolfin laughed also, and they embraced, and with his unlikely smile his eyes twinkled like stars.

They walked together, holding hands. Fingolfin's body coursed with formless energy. _Now I will become fire_ , he thought, feeling warm from his brother's touch. They passed the shores of Eldamar, and walked through towering forests reaching mountainlike to the heavens. Feanor pointed out every wonder as they passed, from the stallion-like waves to the delicate flowers on the forest floor. _But no wonder is like my brother, and no light is as radiant as his eyes._ The radiance seemed kind here, as they knit chains of flowers to entwine in each other's hair.

Fingolfin returned often to the forest after that day to look for his brother. Feanor was sometimes there, sometimes not, but Fingolfin would not complain or ask why, any more than he would ask the waves to crash at his will. Feanor sometimes raged and sometimes laughed, but always would walk with his brother, and touch his hand, making Fingolfin feel more alive than he had believed possible. _I am touched by fire_ , he thought. _Now I am aflame._

Then, after a time, once Fingolfin sought Feanor in their place in the forest and he was not there. This once Fingolfin did not return home, but walked alone through the dark woods, visiting each spot he knew Feanor to have been. He touched trees they had stood beneath, as if to receive from them the memory of fire. Then he heard a noise, and his brother's breathing.

Feanor stood at a distance, hand in hand with copper-haired Nerdanel, his master's daughter. They wore forge-stained smocks, as if coming directly from the workshop. Their eyes were fixed on each other. Fingolfin knew that if he cried out they would not hear him, would not turn from each other for even an instant. Not could he turn from what he saw.

The lovers reached for each other suddenly, bodies working together. They tore at each other's clothes, and Feanor pushed Nerdanel roughly against a tree, kissing her lips, face, and neck. She grabbed his hair to pull his mouth harder against hers. Fingolfin could see the curve of her breast where her dress was torn, and wondered what Feanor's touch felt like on that white skin. He watched Nerdanel take Feanor's hips to bring him between her thighs, and he saw their hair flow together behind her, black and red together merging in a dark flame. _Is this the burning I desired?_ Fingolfin thought, and remembered the heat of his brother's hands.

When Feanor and Nerdanel were wed some time after Fingolfin gave the toasts and blessings befitting a younger brother, and drank a great deal of wine.

He courted Anaire assiduously, with flowers and jewels and the finest crafts. Anaire was surprised, but not disappointed, as she had delighted in Fingolfin's company since they began riding together in childhood. They followed custom and allowed themselves only simple kisses before they were wed, but Fingolfin took great pleasure in the soft burning lit in her eyes at even this gentle touch. He never returned to meet his brother in the forest, and Feanor did not ask why. In time, when they came of age, Fingolfin and Anaire were married, and spent many hours exploring the now-permitted delights of the body. Fingolfin was content, especially when he awoke to find himself surrounded by Anaire's limbs and the smell of their passion. He never thought of Feanor, nor sought him out, nor spoke his name. 

As the years passed, sometimes Fingolfin returned to the shores. The waves reminded him of something he dared not say. He chanced upon Feanor there once, wandering with his family. Feanor held a young boy in his arms who liked to braid his father's hair and sing wordless songs. Nerdanel was round-bellied and bright-eyed, and as her side was a quiet child as tall as her waist. The boy introduced himself as Maedhros, and his brother as Maglor, and solemnly shook hands with his uncle.

"So, Son of Indis," Feanor asked, the old mocking laugh in his voice, "now that you are wed, do you still follow me?"

"Must you take everything for yourself?" Fingolfin responded crossly, struck by sudden fear. Nerdanel laughed, a big booming laugh from her ample belly, but Maedhros's young eyes met his uncle's, as if he knew the truth of those words better than he could imagine. Then the true answer to Feanor's question came to Fingolfin's mind, dark and unbidden. _Only call, Brother, and I will follow, now and forever._

When Fingolfin returned home he found Anaire at her studies. He crept up from behind and seized her, kissing her neck as his hands explored her body. She turned in his arms and kissed him, pulling him down with her to the floor. He loved her there, hard, with all the passion his loins could give. But as he felt the soft flame of her breath on his lips, he remembered the heat of Feanor's hands, and he thought of his father's words:

__

Though all the Noldor burn with an inner flame, none is like Feanor, whose soul burns with a passionate fire, the very fire of the One. 


	3. Chapter 2: Memory of a Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

It was many years before Maedhros came to him.

  


They had been happy years for Fingolfin, in his home in Tirion. One son had joined his family, then another. Fingolfin and Anaire still wanted more children, and took much delight in their frequent attempts to conceive them. He had rarely seen Feanor since that night, a year before his eldest son was born nearly sixteen years ago. So it was a great surprise when he opened his front door to find Maedhros waiting.

  


Maedhros was solemn-faced, and tired-looking. Although almost at his maturity, it seemed to Fingolfin that he had not changed very much since they had met seventeen years ago. _Does he yet burn?_ thought Fingolfin. _Does the fire yet remain?_ He cast the thought from his mind and brought his nephew inside.

  


They spoke pleasantries at first, about Finwe and life in Tirion. Maedhros answered every question seriously, as if unused to company. _Of course_ , Fingolfin thought, _Feanor guards his sons like treasure._ He realized that Maedhros must have scarcely any friends outside his immediate family. Finally, he asked, "And how is it with your parents?"

  


Maedhros shifted, looking younger than his age. "Mother has moved out," he said. "Again."

  


The state of Feanor's marriage was a known secret among his family, but Fingolfin wanted to hear more from his nephew. "Again? Do they quarrel?"

  


"Not exactly. Father…Father makes things, and Mother doesn't like them. She knows his work better than anyone, you see, and there are things she doesn't think anyone should be making. She doesn't want to work on them with him, and she says they shouldn't be in the house with the children. So she took little Celegorm and walked out."

  


"Celegorm? Not Maglor?"

  


"Maglor is old enough not to be taken anywhere against his will, and he wanted to stay with Father. He is learning now…have you heard him sing?" Maedhros flashed a smile, the first smile Fingolfin had ever seen from him.

  


"I have not," Fingolfin answered, "but from your face I do not doubt that he would be worth hearing." Maedhros smiled again. "But what about you?" Fingolfin asked.

  


Maedhros did not answer, and looked at the floor.

  


"Let me guess," said Fingolfin after a time. "Your father thinks you are with your mother, and your mother thinks you are with your father, and you came here. Am I right?"

  


Maedhros nodded slowly.

  


"Why?"

  


The gaze Maedhros gave his uncle had an intensity that shocked him, a sudden flash of burning need. "Because I thought you would understand," he said.

  


"Understand what?"

  


"Just…understand."

  


Understand? Perhaps he did. He remembered walking too close to the fire, passing though it not entirely consumed. Such a fire could scorch a child, burn him until nothing was left but the memory of a flame. Or the fire itself. What fire was there in this quiet youth? Fingolfin had a sudden urge to touch him, and to see if his hands would burn.

  


"You may stay, then," Fingolfin said, "for a few days. My sons will be glad to meet their cousin."

  


Maedhros smiled gratefully. "Thank you," he said.

  


Turgon was asleep in his cradle, clutching a cloth book. "My father's runes," Maedhros said, peering at it.

  


"Yes, Turgon likes them, although he can't read them yet. His mother thinks he will be a scholar like her one day."

  


Fingon came running in from the backyard, covered in dirt. "This is Fingon, my eldest," Fingolfin said.

  


"Hello," Maedhros said. "I'm your cousin Maedhros."

  


"Hello," Fingon said. "Do you like to climb trees?"

  


"Where did you find all that dirt in a tree?" Fingolfin asked his son.

  


"No, Father," Fingon explained patiently, "the dirt is from under the tree. Where the worms are."

  


Fingolfin laughed. "Ah well. That explains it."

  


"Well?" Fingon asked Maedhros again. "Do you?"

  


"I don't know," Maedhros answered. "I've never tried."

  


Well, come on, then," Fingon said, grabbing his cousin's hand. "There's a mallorn tree in the backyard." Fingolfin laughed again, nodded his approval, and went outside to watch his son and nephew play. 

  


Fingon was half his cousin's height but he scampered right up the tree as Maedhros was hauling himself up to the first branch. Maedhros moved slowly at first, as if afraid his weight would break the tree, but as he became more confident he began to swing from branch to branch along with his cousin. The tree stretched out in all directions, a leaf-covered playground. After a time Fingon discovered that he could climb on his cousin's broad shoulders and reach above the highest leaves. He picked the finest leaf from the very top and gave it to Maedhros as a present, causing him to laugh so hard he almost fell down.

  


Watching the boys play in the tree Fingolfin thought he saw the age difference between them evaporate. Maedhros began to move more freely, more openly, and in his bold movements Fingolfin thought he could see the beginnings of fire. Fingon had always been an energetic child, but rarely had taken to someone so swiftly. Could the fire in this boy's soul, carefully tended, bring tamed warmth into Fingolfin's home? Surely it was no less than Maedhros deserved.

  


They were interrupted by a sudden shout from the front door. Fingolfin did not need Maedhros's suddenly frozen face to tell him who it was. "Wait here," he said, and went to the door to meet his brother.

  


Feanor burst into the house. "What have you done with my son?" he asked without preamble. The burning in his eyes was hard, and Fingolfin felt a familiar fear.

  


"I am no thief of children," Fingolfin answered, as calmly as he could. "Your son is almost of age, and is here as my guest."

  


"Your guest?" Feanor asked quietly, his voice blazing. "He comes without my leave, nor that of his mother. Would you take my son's loyalty?"

  
__

Would I take… Fingolfin tasted a sudden hope of power like blood. Was there something he could take from his brother? And if it began with loyalty, could it not end with love? "Would you stay?" he asked. "Maedhros is welcome here, but so are you."

  


"Am I?" Feanor asked. "Perhaps. But bring me my son."

  


Maedhros walked in then, solemn-faced again. "I apologize, Father," he said. 

  


"You don't have to go, Maedhros," Fingolfin said.

  


"Yes I do," Maedhros said. "I'm sorry."

  


"I hope you come back," Fingon said, appearing at his father's elbow.

  


"I hope so too," Maedhros answered him.

  


"Will I see you again?" Fingolfin asked Feanor, trying to keep the longing from his voice. He expected that Feanor would rage, or even strike him, but instead Feanor raised his hand to Fingolfin's cheek with a delicate burning touch. "So," he said, "my son yearns for the son of Indis. Perhaps he is wise, then. Perhaps he is wise." And with that he turned and led Maedhros away.

  


"Well," Fingolfin asked Fingon, after Feanor had left and he had a chance to catch his breath, "what do you think of him?"

  


"I think he is very lonely," Fingon said, and left the room, presumably to look for more worms. 

  


Fingolfin began to wander again that night by Telperion's rays, while Anaire lay sleeping. He walked along the cliffs overlooking the shores, and knelt to touch a carved foothold, after all this time still there. He came back night after night, walking alone, not asking himself what he hoped to find. One night he saw Feanor at the shore, in the arms of his wife. They held each other as the waved crashed over them, wetting Nerdanel's white dress. Feanor kissed her, deeply, and ran his hands over her rounded belly. She responded to his kiss with moans that carried into the distance.

  
__

And so she returns again, Fingolfin thought. _She is_ _drawn to the fire, and unable to turn away._

  


As am I, Brother. As am I.

  


 

  


 

  


 

  


*******

  


A note on ages:

  


Elves mature at age 50, so Maedhros here is in his late 40's, around 17 in human terms. Fingon is the equivalent of around 7.


	4. Chapter 3: Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

Fingolfin ceased his nighttime wanderings after a time, and soon Anaire conceived again. After much discussion, and some regret, they decided that this would be their last child. According to custom, this was the time for husband and wife to move from the loving of the body to the loving of the spirit. So, with the trepidation of all new lovers, they began their explorations of this new kind of union.

  


They lay naked, unmoving, no barrier between them yet not touching. Fingolfin looked at his wife's body, so familiar, so perfect. He almost reached for her but, following custom, did not. Instead he met her eyes with his, and they began to breathe as one. Lying so close, their breaths were mingled, the warm air she exhaled filling his mouth. He could sense, rather than see, a window in his wife's dark eyes, an opening to the hidden places of her soul. Slowly he sent forth the tendrils of his mind, using only the soft force of his gaze, to gently pry it open. He felt her doing the same to him, both taking and taken at once. Her breathing came quickly, and hers matched it. Suddenly, the doors were open. He felt colours he could not have imagined, shapes that could not exist outside the contours of the heart. They laughed together, dancing through his soul and hers, each thought a caress of joy. Some rooms were still blocked to him. Although he knew he could go deeper in time, some places would always be closed, for not all the soul can be shared. Yet he rejoiced in what he saw, in what he felt, touched, tasted, sensed with another sense beyond all of these, in the beauty and sweetness he had always enjoyed in his wife, here deeper and sweeter than her most passionate embrace.

  


Finally they withdrew from each other. They said nothing, for there was nothing further that could be said, no further communication that could be shared. They only smiled, and drifted off to an exhausted but happy slumber.

  


As the months passed, Anaire seemed satisfied. More than satisfied, she glowed with a peaceful radiance. Fingolfin was also, most of the time. But sometimes he missed the loving of the flesh, and yearned for strong hands and claiming lips. He knew his brother was not content with the loving of the spirit, nor would he be. Nerdanel swelled with her fifth child, which was as many as Finwe had produced from both his wives. Sometimes in secret Fingolfin would touch himself, knowing it to be forbidden, thinking only of fire.

  


It was shortly after Aredhel was born that Maedhros came back. Fingolfin welcomed him in, and as they were sitting down Fingon appeared. He had grown taller since the last time Maedhros had seen him, and now reached almost to his father's shoulder. His dark hair was braided, or at least it looked like it had been that morning. 

  


"Hello, Maedhros," Fingon said.

  


"You remember me," Maedhros responded, surprised.

  


"Of course," Fingon answered.

  


Fingolfin smiled. "He's been asking about you. We're glad you could come back. Is your father still angry?"

  


"Actually," Maedhros said, "I'm here on my father's errand. He says he wants to see you."

  


"Me?" Fingolfin's mouth went suddenly dry. "Now?"

  


"He said you could come any time. But I think he is expecting you now."

  


Fingolfin was standing before he knew it. Maedhros got up as well. "Why don't you stay?" Fingon asked him. "We could go to the lake."

  


Maedhros looked enquiringly at Fingolfin, who nodded his approval and ran out the door.

  


Fingolfin knew well the way to Feanor's house. He had been there many times on his nighttime journeys, each time wandering seemingly purposeless, almost surprised to find himself standing over the many-spired complex his brother had designed. This time, at his brother's summons, his feet sped him almost faster than his will.

  


Feanor was waiting in the great hall of his home. His hair was unbound and he wore the silver circlet of his rank as the heir of Finwe. He stood in the centre of the hall, alone.

  


"Son of Indis," Feanor said. Fingolfin could feel the fire in his brother's voice, the very fire he remembered.

  


"Brother," he answered.

  


Feanor stepped across the room in one motion and took his brother's hand in his. His hand was still hot, and burned Fingolfin's flesh. "Come," he said.

  


He led him, hand in hand, down winding darkened candle-lit stairs to a jewel-filled cavern. No torch brightened this treasury, yet the light of the jewels within it seemed like the very light of Telperion for brightness. Fingolfin watched silently as Feanor led him among the stones. One jewel seemed as if of crystal, lit from inside with a blue flame. The flame twitched, sending shadows in all directions. Fingolfin touched that gem, and the ones beside it, never letting go of his brother's hand. They were all bright, and warm to the touch. _But nothing shines like Feanor_ , he thought, _and nothing burns like his fire._

  


Finally his fingers came to rest on a green stone about half the length of his palm. At first it seemed dark, the hue of the sea as its waves crash in Telperion's light. But beneath his touch it shone, and seemed like the rays of Laurelin shining through the first leaves of spring. It was flawless, of course, all one colour, yet as Fingolfin looked at the stone it took on every hue of the forest, of the dark twig and the light grasses, of flower-branches bound in dark hair, mingled with a fire that burned on its own.

  


"Would you like it?" Feanor asked.

  


Fingolfin's hand froze.

  


"My son has spoken of you, and your family," Feanor continued. "I believe that when he fled to you that day there was a wisdom that guided his steps, although it is a wisdom that I do not understand. I would have a bond between the house of Feanor and the son of Indis."

  


"I have always desired peace with you, my brother," Fingolfin answered, looking from the stone to Feanor's eyes.

  


Feanor closed the narrow gap between them, and placed two fingers on his brother's lips. "Much have you desired of me, Son of Indis, but not peace. I would give you this stone."

  


Fingolfin had a sudden fear that this was a test, yet another test of Feanor's. He remembered the cliff, and almost falling. "Yes," he said.

  


The stone lay heavy on his chest where Feanor placed it. It shot rays of fire through his soul, into every breath of his flesh. Fingolfin felt a sudden strength in his hands, and in his limbs, and he met Feanor's gaze without turning aside. They touched hands, and returned to the entrance hall.

  


"I am not one for dinner parties and house guests," Feanor said, "but my sons may go to you if they wish it."

  


"And may I come back?" Fingolfin asked, touching the green stone above his heart.

  


"Not often," Feanor answered, "once, perhaps twice a year. But yes, you may return."

  


They touched hands once again, and Fingolfin set off. He walked slowly, feeling the weight of the stone on him. _I bear a flame_ , he thought, _I touch fire, and I burn._ But even before he reached home, the heat of the stone burned less than the memory of his brother's touch on his lips.

  


Fingon came home much later. "What did you do at the lake all day?" Fingolfin asked him.

  


"We climbed over rocks and explored in the forest and threw acorns and met a salamander and talked to it," Fingon answered. "And Maedhros told me about his family. Can I go visit them?"

  


The thought of Feanor's hot hands on his son's young face made Fingolfin go suddenly cold. "I don't think so. But Maedhros can come here whenever he wants to. And he has younger brothers who are closer to your age."

  


"Good," Fingon said. "They can play with Turgon and Aredhel."

  


Fingolfin's mind was already working ahead. With the father that Maedhros and his brothers had, surely they could use another. The improbable affection that seemed to be developing between his impetuous son and Feanor's eldest could only help. He could imagine Feanor's sons in his household, warming it, bringing with them the very fire of their father. And, if his sons were present, would Feanor always stay so distant? _A bond between our families_ , Fingolfin thought, touching the stone at his chest. _But who is the binder, and who the bound? Or do we bind each other? And, once bound, is there any release?_

  


Anaire noticed the stone, but as it was a gift from a brother she could not object. When he asked her to resume the loving of the body she consented, although she no longer took pleasure in it. Fingolfin's soul was becoming increasingly clouded with rooms he did not wish to share. Sometimes she touched the stone as he lay in her arms, and felt its heat, and wondered. 

  


 

  


 

  


******

  


The green stone is none other than the Elessar the Elfstone, which according to HoME 11:176/7 was made by Feanor. Some of the description of it was taken from The Fellowship of the Ring p. 421. The blue-flamed lights were from 'Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin' in Unfinished Tales, Footnote 2. Many thanks to Finch for giving me these references. For more information on this stone and what became of it see the notes to chapter 4 of her story 'Under the Curse.'


	5. Chapter 4: The Seeing-Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

"What do you seek, Son of Indis?" Feanor asked.

  


Fingon shrugged. He didn't seek anything, not that he knew of, not really. Feanor had wanted to speak with him, and he had been curious to finally meet his friend's father, so he had come to his house and let Feanor lead him to this room filled with gemstones and crystals. He thought of the strange look in his father's eyes every time Feanor was mentioned. Surely he would not approve of this visit. But Fingolfin had grown ever more distant in the years that had passed since Argon's birth, and did not have to find out. Besides, hadn't he said that he could visit Feanor when he was older? Fingon was fully grown in body, though a few years below his maturity, and for more than a decade he and Maedhros had been close friends. Surely by now he must be old enough.

  


They sat across a white table with one clear round jewel between them. Feanor cupped his hand around it. "What do you seek, Son of Indis?" he asked again. His eyes were dark, burning and taunting. Almost against his will, Fingon followed his uncle's gaze to the centre of the stone.

  


He saw white cliffs, crashing waves, burning heat. He saw a male lion pouncing, towering in its masculinity, with eyes that seemed like his own. He saw two figures, limbs entwined in a passionate embrace, and knew with certainty that one was himself. He felt the intensity of their pleasure, and their heat…

  


"Stop that," Fingon said angrily. "And stop calling me 'Son of Indis.'"

  


"I name you after your father, for you are like him," Feanor responded. "But as for the stone, it is your own desires that it reveals."

  


Fingon closed his eyes and willed his mind blank. When he opened them again the stone was flat and colourless.

  


"You have strength, though you are young," Feanor said, almost mocking, "and the stone is not your master. But will you not learn from it? For it has much to teach. I ask again, Fingon son of Fingolfin, what is it that you desire?"

  


The colours of the stone shifted then from white to green, not the green of the stone Fingon's father always wore, not quite, but the green of hills, of a landscape not of Valinor. The colours resolved into the picture of a vast expanse streaked with rivers, the dark and gold and red of trees, the white stone of tall mountains. Fingon saw great cities built, brick by brick, and beyond each city yet another dark wild to explore. In a high city there was a king, and a throne, and a crown. And whose face was that beneath the royal circlet? Was it his? Or his father's?

  


"What are you, Son of Indis?"

  


The picture dissolved into a single white-gold flame, burning, soothing, touching, seeing. 

  


"Can I go now?" Fingon asked, jerking his eyes from the stone.

  


"You came willingly, and I do not hold you," Feanor answered. "Go, and think on what you have seen. Return when you will, for I have much to teach you."

  


When Fingon left Feanor's house he went instinctively to the rock by the lake where he liked to sit with Maedhros. It seemed like the safest place, and he wanted to avoid his father for the moment. _Father on a throne, with a crown, ruling over lands vast beyond imagining…or was it me?_ Was it this that Fingolfin had been seeking, that kept him so remote? _And what do I seek?_

  


Fingon thought of his other teacher, Arosanwe of the Vanyar, who had been his mother's teacher before him. Arosanwe taught that all was based on love: the love of the All-Father, from which emanated the music and the Valar. The love of the Valar, each for the other and for the one, that lay at the root of creation. The love blessed on us by our creators, which leads us back to union with the primordial music. Love, said Arosanwe, is the only guide that we are give. "Love," he said, "and do as ye will." Was this like Feanor's teaching, to know one's desire? Are the longings of the heart also emissaries of the Valar, sent to teach their truths? Or are they from somewhere else, somewhere that Fingon could not even imagine?

  
__

And what is it that I desire?

  


It was in these thoughts, uncharacteristically quiet, that Maedhros found him. He shivered, unexpectedly, at the familiar touch of his friend's hand on his back. 

  


"What did my father do to you?" Maedhros asked. His eyes narrowed, and he looked as angry as Fingon had ever seen him. He wondered what his face revealed to inspire such a response, and touched his cousin's hand in reassurance.

  


"When you look into the stone, Maedhros, what do you see?"

  


"He gave you the seeing stone?" Maedhros scowled. "How could he force you, underage…"

  


At that moment, Fingon felt far from underage. "I'm old enough to be your friend, aren't I? Tell me what you saw."

  


Maedhros let out a sigh and sat down next to his cousin. "I saw myself fighting."

  
__

Against your father? Fingon thought but did not say. "You mean, hitting someone? With your fists?"

  


"No, with a long metal stick, a sword…aren't you going to tell me what you saw?"

  


"Yes," … _two bodies entwined_ …"Just not now."

  


They sat quietly, their feet dangling just above the shallow waves. Fingon picked up a flat stone and threw it with one long motion, watching as it skipped across the water. His cousin's mute presence made him feel stronger, and he began to relax muscles he had not known he had tensed. "What's a sword?" he asked after a time.

  


"It's something dark-Elves use in Beleriand, when they have enemies to fight against. Like a knife, made of metal, but longer, and sharp on both sides. Here, let me show you." Maedhros took two stones and knocked them together to form an edge. Then he picked up a branch from the forest, and used the stone to scrape away its sides until it was sharp-edged and pointed.

  


"What do you do with it?"

  


"Maedhros jumped to his feet, mock-sword in hand, and strode a short distance into the forest. Over the years he had become far more comfortable in his motions than he had been when he first came to Fingolfin's home, but here with a wooden sword in his hand he moved with a violent joy, as if with music in his limbs. He faced a tree as if it were an opponent, thrusting, turning, dancing around it. The light of Laurelin lit his copper hair, and his eyes were brighter than all the gemstones of Feanor. Fingon watched, amazed, his friend, always so quiet, now transformed. _Or perhaps it is my eyes that have changed, and I only see what was always true._

  


"Would you make one for me?" he asked.

  


Maedhros bent to pick up another branch.

  


"No, a real one, from the forge. You've made one for yourself, haven't you?" 

  


The sudden grace in Maedhros's limbs shifted back to his more usual hesitation. "Why?"

  
__

Because it means something to you. "So I can practice with you." _So I can dance your dance with you, and be with you in what makes you alive._

  


Maedhros dropped the wooden sword and climbed back on the rock to sit next to his friend. "It doesn't make sense, I know. There isn't anyone to fight in Valinor, and the Valar take care of everything we need. But in Beleriand our kinsmen the Sindar battle Orcs, and wolves, and other evil creatures. The decree of the powers called us here, and I will not go against it. But this does seem to be what I am made for."

  


"Beleriand," Fingon breathed. "That is what I saw. Beleriand." _Green endless hills and dark places. Rivers. Mountains. Space. Freedom._ He imagined himself at his cousin's side in the wild lands across the sea, and smiled at the thought. 

  


Maedhros looked up with a sudden curiosity and hope. "Then I will forge you a sword."

  


They remained by the lake for a long time that day. When Fingon finally did return home, after the light of Laurelin had faded into the silver light of Telperion, he was quiet, and avoided conversation with his family. His mind was on distant lands, and swords, and all that he had seen that day in the stone of Feanor.

  


 

  


*****

  


Notes:

  


Arosanwe of the Vanyar doesn't belong to me either, although I am grateful to Altariel Artanis for finding me a Quenya name for him. If you are curious as to who he is and you don't recognize the quote (or the highly mangled trinitarian theology) you can find the answer in the notes to 'Across the Ice.'

  


Argon is Fingolfin's third son and fourth (and last) child according to HoME vol. 12. 

  


Many thanks to Cirdan for betareading this chapter.


	6. Chapter 5: Sword-dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

A step backwards, half a step forwards. The metallic sound of steel on steel. Fingon was slowly learning Maedhros's sword-dance, taking on the ease of his motions with sword in hand. He knew in his mind that this dance was for killing, that somewhere far away these motions were taken in the face of darkness and not with a kind and loving friend. But here, among the trees by the coast in the peace of Valinor, the dance of blade with blade, spinning body and raised hand, seemed only for the delight in the movement. He saw the fierce joy in his cousin's eyes, and felt its echo in his own, and was content, and more than content.

When they tired from the dance, they lay silent on the grass in the shelter of a mallorn tree. At moments like this, withdrawing from the peculiar intimacy of combat, Fingon found that he could use the concentration of mind that Feanor had taught him to penetrate his cousin's spirit, only slightly, just as far as the outer mists. Even from that distance he could sense the sharp peaks, the pools of muted yearning, and yet, beneath these and surrounding them, a burning taste of nectar. He felt the happy response of his friend on the edges of his spirit as well, and was amazed, as always, at the gentleness of touch from such a blazing soul.

The light of the trees mingled, and the waves turned silver as Telperion waxed in strength. They had come to the forest, as always, far from Tirion, to practice the dance of the swords. Fingon had not told his family of this dance, not yet. It would raise too many questions about things he did not want to speak about, like Beleriand, and his occasional visits to Feanor. And what was the use of swords in Valinor, aside from the beauty of their dance? Surely he could keep this private, the secret joy of blades clashing.

"When do you have to be back?" Fingon asked after a time. He wished he could learn mind-speech; his voice sounded jarring to him always, after such fluent speaking of limbs and spirit.

"Not for a while. I left a half-forged pendant at the workshop, but Father said that he would take care of it. He is always encouraging when I come out here with you."

__

I wonder why, Fingon thought. He was still not sure how he felt about his friend's imposing father. He had been to see Feanor three more times in the years that had passed since that first visit. Feanor had shown him how to shape the visions in the stone to his will. They had seem more of Beleriand, of endless shores and lands, and great kingdoms of wood, vale and forest. This last time, however, the stone had shifted under Feanor's gaze and shown strange images of Fingon's father, plaiting gold and silver in Feanor's hair.

'What have you done with my father?' Fingon had asked, amazed. He had always thought his father hostile to his brother, but now it seemed that what passed between them was more complex than he has imagined.

''He came to me willingly, as did you,' Feanor had answered, his lips curling in an almost-smile, 'and I gave him only what he desired.'

__

And what is it that I seek?, Fingon thought, remembering this exchange. The question still held him, but he was glad not to have to answer it, not yet.

"Do you ever think about not living with your father?" he asked Maedhros. His younger brother Maglor was already married, and the little twins Amrod and Amras where still living with their mother, who had, according to family rumor, left Feanor for good.

"No," Maedhros said after a pause. "Not often, not really. Or I do, but then I think, all I am is from him. But he can be harsh, sometimes, and hardly anyone can speak to him in a way that he will hear. Now that Mother is gone, it seems that no one can. Father tells me that when they were young, working for Grandfather Mahtan, she once made a ruby, perfect and delicate, with the shape of a flame at its heart. She brought it to Father, who worked with it to make the flame seem even more alive. Then she put it down on the table in front of him, took a hammer, and smashed it with one blow."

"Was he angry?"

"He says that is when he knew he was going to marry her."

Fingon laughed. So that is what it takes to open a flaming heart. "Did you ever try breaking anything?"

"I never made anything perfect enough to break. It doesn't matter," he added quickly, as Fingon began to reassure him, "I know I am without my father's talents, or even my mother's. That is why he gives me the seeing-stone, I think, so that I can imagine something else to do with my fire, something that isn't about the forge. My mother says that everyone has their own language, their own way of speaking, and if you can learn it you can speak right to the heart of who they are. She could learn anyone's, but I think I am only now, with the sword, beginning to learn my own."

__

I will never learn Feanor's language, Fingon thought, _but I will learn yours, and speak it with you._ His limbs remembered the beauty of the sword-dance and the song in his friend's motions, and the thought made him smile as they rested in the shelter of trees. 


	7. Chapter 6: The Silmarils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

Fingolfin followed his brother hand in hand down the shadowed staircase through the darkened workshop. They walked silently, barely touching as Feanor led Fingolfin through the wonders he had created. One, like the dew on a new-budded _Niphredil_ , fragile, and yet imperishable stone. Another, white in beauty like the snows of the peak of Taniquetil. On each of his visits Fingolfin saw these marvels, and new ones, and wondered at them. In the years that had passed Feanor had crafted something beyond these, beyond the greatest wonders of the Noldor, or any of the peoples of the Elves. 

The Silmarils had once been seen by all at a distance, at the great feasts. Over time, they had become more and more secret, their light hoarded by Feanor, save when he wore them blazing on his brow. None could approach them, none save Feanor alone. But now, touching his brother's hand, Fingolfin trembled to realize that he was being led to these very jewels.

They lay, unencumbered by any setting, on a table covered by a green cloth, so small, each scarcely larger than an Elven palm, yet so overwhelming in their presence that they seemed to fill the hall with their beauty alone. Fingolfin stretched out his hand.

"Do not touch them," Feanor warned.

__

Why not? Fingolfin wondered, but did not ask, for he could not speak.

The Silmarils shone with a light of complete purity, as if hallowed and blessed by the Valar, and beyond. A light that could transform any darkness, it seemed, into a place of peace. Though all the crafts of Feanor were of surpassing loveliness, never had Fingolfin seen such beauty, or imagined that such could be. Surely this was the fire of which his father spoke, the very fire of the One. A fire that burned so bright, and so pure, could be none other.

"Are they not beautiful?" Feanor asked.

Fingolfin wheeled in shock. Feanor had never doubted the beauty of his crafts; why would he ask of this, his highest creation? And what was that in his brother's voice? Could it be weakness? Could it be need? In Feanor?

Had the Spirit of Fire forged a flame he could not bind?

"I think Mother would have liked them," Feanor continued.

  
__  


Mother? Feanor surely could not mean Indis, the mother who had raised him, and Fingolfin had never heard him speak of the mother who bore him, save to call himself her son. And what had she to do with these radiant gems? "But you never knew your mother."

The moment of seeming weakness was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared. Feanor raised one eyebrow, and the corner of one mouth, and his eyes were as hard as the jewels he had shaped, and burned with the very fire. "No," he said. "I did not."

A moment passed, and another, between the twin fires of Feanor and the Silmarils. Then, a sudden motion and Feanor crossed the narrow distance between them, seized his brother's face, and pressed it to his own. A heartbeat. Claiming lips. Fingolfin wrenched his face aside, placed his hands on his brother's chest, and pushed him backwards with all his strength.

"Are you mad?" he shouted, trying without success to ignore the rising heat in his body. "What madness has taken you?"

A breath taken by two chests as one. A gaze. An absence of forgiveness. Fingolfin touched the green stone at his chest for reassurance, as he had become accustomed over these years, but it was cold, as cold as the eyes that faced him.

"I think I should go," he said.

"Yes," Feanor answered. "You should go." 

He made no move to lead his brother to the entrance-hall as he always did to end their visits, so Fingolfin turned and groped his way through jewel-filled caverns, not looking right or left, not to marvel or to stone. Even the radiance of Laurelin as he emerged could not warm him, and seemed dark after the light from which he had turned away. 


	8. Chapter 7: Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know who started the rumors, you can find out in Silmarillion 7: Of the Silmarils

Fingolfin had never been in darkness. He was born in the Land of the Trees, with its constant immersion in light of gold and silver. Even the caverns of Feanor's home were always well lit with the fires of torches and gemstones. He knew that to find darkness in Valinor one needs to seek it, to look in caves and tunnels by the coast, and such had never been his desire. But when he left his brother and the light of the Silmarils even the light of the Trees into which he emerged seemed faded, as if it were not.

A moment passed, in which he thought to turn, to return to Feanor, perhaps to ask his forgiveness. But for what? For being born the second child, the son of a living mother? For having a flame that did not yet consume? He did not understand what Feanor sought of him, nor the strange need in his brother's eyes. It had a name that perhaps he had heard once, that lingered about the edges of his mind, but when Fingolfin reached for it, it was gone.

He walked to the cliffs, to the very cliff he had climbed with Feanor in his youth. The handholds were still in place, and he climbed down them one by one into the sand by the beach. The green of the sea reminded him of the stone around his neck, but when he looked down at it the colour had darkened, to a green that was closer to black. He bent down, took a handful of sand, and used it to scrape the memory of his brother's kiss from his lips until they bled.

What longing had seized Feanor as they stood before the Silmarils? What had he sought as he reached for his brother? Was there a power in the light of the stones to make one believe that one can have that which one desires? His face still burned where Feanor's hands had been. He felt damaged by that kiss, as if invaded by something more insidious than memory. But why would Feanor seek to harm him?

The question, once asked, brought its own answer. He had heard the rumors, of course. _Small love has the proud son of Miriel ever had for the children of Indis_. The rumors had impressed him little, and had seemed as malicious tales spread by the ignorant. For who knew of Fingolfin's visits, or the secret of the stone that he wore always? But there was something that frightened him now in Feanor, in that nameless look that Fingolfin could not and would not recognize. Fingolfin faced the namelessness for a moment, then gave it a name, and called it madness.

He returned to his friends, who had told him of the rumors, and asked if there was anything more to tell. They told him of weapons, secret large knives forged by Feanor, which could remove an Elven head with one blow. For what purpose were these weapons forged, if not to drive the sons of Indis out from Tirion? The weapons added strength to the rumors of Feanor's plots, rumors that before Fingolfin had not thought to believe. When Fingolfin inquired more of these weapons, what they look like and how they are used, he was told to ask his son.

Fingon denied nothing. "I have a sword and have been trained in its use," he said, "but I have done no evil with it, nor shall I."

"The mere possession of these weapons is an evil," Fingolfin shouted, pacing angrily, "and the greater evil is that you kept them secret from your House, when they are possessed by our rivals."

"If that is the name that you give to Maedhros and his family then it is well that you are unarmed."

Fingolfin slammed his fists on the table. What was to be done with his troublesome child? Then he realized that there might be more here than the impudence of late adolescence. He had imagined, once, that he could take in Feanor's son and give to him what Feanor could not. Had he instead lost his own son to Feanor? "I ask again," he said, "will you give over the secret of the making of swords?"

"I have not the skill, Father." _And if I had,_ Fingolfin could almost hear from his son's set lips, _I would not share it with you._

"Then you will be confined to your rooms until it is discovered, in consideration of the treason you have shown your House and your family." There were no guards in Fingolfin's household, as none had ever been needed, but perhaps some would have to be appointed until these times of trouble were over, until the madness of Feanor could be brought under control

"If you like, Father," Fingon said, sounding almost conciliatory after his earlier defiance, "I will show you the beauty of the sword dance."

"There is no beauty in weapons," Fingolfin said, and sent his son away.

As Fingolfin reviewed his recent discoveries the need for action seemed more than clear. It was imperative that the members of his House arm themselves to prepare for attack, and only the Feanorians knew how to forge these armaments. Fingolfin smiled a crafty smile that he was ashamed to feel on his face. Of all the Feanorians who knew this secret, there was one who might perhaps be induced to tell him. And if Feanor had used the affection that had developed between their sons for his own purposes, it seemed only right that Fingolfin should do the same. He sat down, put his face in his hands, and waited for the inevitable visit from Maedhros. 

 

  


 

  


*****

  


Note: If you want to know who started the rumors, you can find out in Silmarillion 7: Of the Silmarils


	9. Chapter 8: Family Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

Warning: This chapter is extremely disturbing. I'm not sure what warning to put on it, but it has been termed the most upsetting thing I have yet written. If you skip it and go on to the next chapter you will still understand the plot.

 

 

Chapter 8

The mingling of the two lights was the time of greatest brightness in Valinor, a time when light was gold and silver as one. For Maedhros it meant the end of the workday. A time of anticipation, and dread.

The moment the new light of Telperion touched the fading light of Laurelin , all hands fell as one. The seven sons of Feanor and their father with one motion brought their tools in their right arms to the floor, and stood, facing west. Then the joining of souls could begin.

It began with pleasure, as it always did. A soft, kind light, extending from Feanor through Maedhros, then to Maglor, then to the others, one by one. Although exhausted from the day's work at the forge, Maedhros felt his strength return, and grow. His brothers' minds joined with his, and he could feel them all. Curufin, clever and distracted, now bringing the sharpness of his mind into the circle. Celegorm, who had spend the day smashing his stones as if he wished with all his will to be elsewhere, now relaxing into the union. Maglor as always came willingly, and the twins and young Caranthir followed. Each brought a touch of brightness with them, a unique presence that was theirs alone. But brightest of all was the fire of Feanor, a fire so bright nothing could contain it. It flowed through all at that moment, seeking and claiming, and merging the brothers into one.

In the pleasure there was also fear. There was a part of him that wanted to hold back, to keep some small place that was Maedhros and not Feanor. But Feanor's demand was too strong. The silence Maedhros wore about himself as armor during the day was of no use here. So it always was, now, when Feanor stretched forth his mind. It had not been thus when Nerdanel had labored with them at the forge. Then, she had waited, with Feanor, and the children would join with them or not, to whatever degree they would. Maedhros would go, then, to the edges of his parents' joined soul, feeling only the gentle warmth of their love. Now, there was no waiting, and no gentleness, only a swift darting from mind to mind, flame-like leaping. Maedhros could refuse nothing now. Only some few feelings he tried not to feel, some knowledge he tried not to know. That which was not held could not be taken. Or so he hoped. Then he let go of his hopes, and felt only fire.

It was at that moment that Feanor brought forth the Silmarils, when each son felt only Feanor in his mind. Maedhros could not see, for his eyes were not his own, but he looked, as they all did, through Feanor's eyes. What colours were those he saw? They had no name, nor should they. They brought thoughts to Maedhros that he did not want to think, so he thought of his father instead. And how easy to do nothing else. _There is no fire like the fire of Feanor._ And if there were, would it also consume? At the edges of his memory Maedhros could feel a white gentle flame that was altogether different, but he gazed once again at the Silmarils and it was gone.

The sons gathered around their father, and with a single motion each placed their right hand on the jewels. The pleasure Maedhros has felt at the joining only intensified at this touch. With seven hands touching the three jewels they did not darken. Rather the light shone through the flesh, illuminating them, transforming them into hands of light. It burned, hot, a heat more intense than that of the forge, but there was no pain in it. Only need. This was not the first time the brothers had touched the Silmarils, although Feanor permitted it only rarely, but each time was more intense than the one before. _I cannot live without this. I cannot live…_

Feanor placed his own hands on top of those of his sons. _What do you see?_ he asked.

The answer came from one mind in one voice. There is nothing like the fire of Feanor. _It is you._

They remained for a moment, bathed in light, as if Music become flesh. Then Feanor turned, breaking the contact, taking the Silmarils away from his sons' hands. No one moved until the Silmarils were returned to their vault.

Maedhros stood for a while, unable to move or think. The burning was still in his eyes, his limbs, his soul. It hurt that it was gone, and it hurt that it had been. He knew, dimly, that he was expected somewhere, somewhere he often went after work, but could not remember it.

Finally Feanor came to him, and put his hand on his shoulder. "You should go," he said. "I think your uncle is waiting for you."


	10. Chapter 9: Forging Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

In the dark they embraced like children. They made their own darkness in the eternal light of the trees, closing all the shutters in Fingon's chambers, for Maedhros had had enough of brightness. When Maedhros trembled in fear or weakness Fingon stroked his hair, and pulled him closer against his chest. Maedhros needed the strength of his friend's arms. He had never in his life felt so weak, so empty. But even in this there was a place of strength. Only that morning he had thought that he could not live without Feanor. Now, he could believe this to be a simple untruth.

"What did my father do to you, to get you to teach him about forging swords?" Fingon asked softly.

"Nothing," Maedhros answered. "I was willing."

"Liar," said Fingon. He ran a gentle finger over the soft tears on his friend's cheek. "That's not nothing."

"No," said Maedhros, falling further into the warmth of Fingon's embrace. "It was not nothing. But it may have been worthwhile."

Fingolfin had begun reasonably, sensibly. It had come to his attention that Feanor and his house had been forging swords. Now, were they in fear of some new enemy? If so, surely the house of Fingolfin need weapons to fight at their side. Or is it for some other reason?

Maedhros did not answer, wrapping himself in the silence Fingolfin had never learned how to read. Feanor forges swords because he likes anything that gives him power. Maedhros himself forged swords in dreams of fighting a dark enemy in Beleriand, away from his father, alongside his friend.

"Where is Fingon?" Maedhros asked.

"He kept a secret about swords that the head of his house needed to know. So he is confined to his rooms until I understand what is going on."

_You use your son as a hostage._ "Is this what you think you need to do to me?" Maedhros whispered.

Fingolfin did not back down. "Your father has been allowed to grow in strength unopposed. Once, you ran to me from him. You wanted to be understood. I did not understand, and for that I am more sorry than I can say. Now I understand more, I think, I have seen your father in his…madness," Fingolfin hesitated over the word, "the way he must have been with you and your brothers. And I fear for my son."

_And for yourself._ Something in Fingolfin's eyes reminded Maedhros of Curufin after the joining. The difference was, none of the brothers had ever tried to rebel against Feanor. Was it possible?

"I will never be as strong as your father," Fingolfin said, as if answering Maedhros's unspoken question. "But I may be strong enough to resist him. With your help. I can go to King Finwe. I can go to the Valar, and ask them to intervene to heal your father, if he is willing to be healed. But only if we have swords. If my house takes a stand against your father, we need to have some means by which to protect ourselves."

_And you believe swords will suffice?_ "If not, what will you do?"  


"We will leave," Fingolfin said flatly. "I, and my house, and anyone who will follow me. We will found a city elsewhere in Valinor, where Feanor will not be welcome."

So this was the threat. It hit Maedhros harder than he had expected. The thought of having Fingon taken from him into distant exile was unbearable to him. As unbearable as the thought of betraying his father. What was most terrible was that Maedhros could not deny that under the present circumstances it might be a good idea. Feanor's mind-hold over his sons had become more and more intense in recent years, since Nerdanel had left. The few times Fingon had gone to see Feanor had frightened Maedhros enough. What right had he to expose his friend to the madness that was the house of Feanor?

The emotions piled up one on another, confusing Maedhros into paralysis. His loyalty was to his house. But was this really a betrayal? Fingon already had a sword, and Feanor did not seem to mind. Perhaps on some level Feanor wanted to be opposed, to not be the only one with strength. Maedhros wished he could be stronger himself, but his father's fire was just too strong. It was not until Fingolfin's face softened that Maedhros realized that he had been crying.

"Let me speak to Fingon," Maedhros said, "and then I will decide."

Fingolfin hesitated, and then nodded, looking ashamed. He sent messengers, and in a moment Fingon was there. Fingon looked from the guilt and anger on his father's face to Maedhros's tears, and then exploded.

"How dare you, Father! Fight your own mad battles with your brother!"

Fingolfin tensed. "You dare rebuke me…"

All three were shocked to hear Maedhros laugh. "I never rebuked my father," he said, bemused. "I never thought I could."

Working in the house-forge there was a strange giddiness in Maedhros's motions. He worked without thinking, sounding almost young when he spoke to give instructions. And when Fingolfin finally held a sword in his hand he looked transformed. He lifted his sword experimentally over his head, and then with confidence, becoming taller in his stance.

It seemed right. It seemed right. But it felt wrong. The lightness faded from Maedhros's motions. Although this was nothing his father had forbidden, still Maedhros could not escape the certainty that what he was doing was something Feanor would not like. He willed himself to continue working, giving instructions to the smiths of Fingolfin's house in a toneless voice. All the while memories of the morning flooded his mind. Fire. Light and fire. Silmarils. Feanor. The hand that had touched the jewels hurt in memory. What if Feanor was angry at him? Could he stand it? Could he live? His hand at the forge began to imperceptibly shake.

Finally, it was done. Fingolfin took over, then, giving orders and directions to his house. Maedhros left the forge and wandered slowly off until Fingon found him. Fingon was clearly still angry, and grew angrier as he took in the fatigue in Maedhros's eyes and the tremble in his hand. With a visible effort, he put the anger aside for the moment.

"What do you think your father is going to do when you get home?" he asked.

"I don't know," Maedhros answered vacantly. "Do you think I should go home?"

"No," Fingon said. "I don't think you should go home. I think you should stay." Then he took Maedhros by the hand and led him upstairs to his darkened room, where he held him and touched his tears.

There is a comfort in darkness that there is not in light. A quietness, and a peace. At least in darkness a light can be seen that a bright burning would dim. So was the soft white flame of friendship.

Maedhros had not embraced anyone, not even his littlest brothers, since Nerdanel had moved out for the last time. It was not something he would have thought to want, let alone to ask for. He could not open his mind, for fear of the stormy confusion inside. So he pulled closer into Fingon's embrace, and let that be his solace. Though the shaking did not completely stop, nor the ache in his heart to return to his father's union, he had bought with this ache the precious and fragile knowledge that he could turn against Feanor, and still he could live.

He could live.

 


	11. Chapter 10: Weapons and Game Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

Anaire left the house as Telperion flowered that night, saying she did not wish to share her home with weapons. She said she would go to stay with her friend Earwen, for doubtless she and her husband had shown more sense.

Fingolfin let her go. Finarfin had already accepted the swords he had sent over, as Fingolfin had known he would. His younger brother had little initiative of his own, but could be counted on at least to follow. When Anaire returned, she sat with her husband across the table covered with swords. She looked at them, as the hours passed, and did not speak. As the flowering of Laurelin neared, she let her husband teach her how to use a blade.

*

Fingon opened the shutters of his rooms in the light of Laurelin to see Feanor standing in the courtyard. Maglor was on his right, and Celegorm on his left, and all three were armed. They carried large swords, heavier even than his own, and they wore tall helmets with plumes of red. They stood silent, unmoving, but their very stance was both a challenge and a threat.

Before Fingon knew what he was doing, he was outside in the courtyard, facing them. Facing Feanor. Feanor's eyes burned into him, and did not allow him to turn aside. He felt the invading force of Feanor's mind probing into his, thick dark tendrils that would tolerate no blocking.

"I do not fear you," Fingon said.

__

I have not asked for your fear, the thought was placed in his mind.

"Then what do you want from me?" 

Feanor raised a hand, clenched it, brought it down. At the edge of his vision Fingon could see a glance from Maglor that looked like sympathy. Then Feanor's mind-touch was all he felt, battering at the walls of his mind.

Where was his father? Where were Turgon and Aredhel? What had possessed him to come out to face Feanor alone?

__

You are braver than your father.

Fingon knew the voice was Feanor's, and saw the weakness of his own resistance. He dropped his mind-guard, and let his thoughts be filled with anger for the one who stood before him. _You are no teacher,_ he made himself think. _You hurt people. I will not learn from you._

Will you not? Thoughts came unbidden, one by one. It was like the seeing-stone, only more, for the images were not outside him but seemed to spring from the deepest places of his soul. He felt the sword-dance in his limbs, vanquishing dark creatures, and then saw the admiring eyes of those who would call him a hero. His brothers, his sister, and even his father were in danger, but he knew his valor kept them safe. Bards sang of his deeds, a joyous song of triumph.

And there was more, another prize for the hero. A gentle touch, pliant lips, a body as aroused as his own opening beneath his sharp thrusts. His breath came hard at the unfamiliar feelings

Unfamiliar. Therefore, not his own. "You tried this once on me already," he said. "You might as well stop. It worked better with the seeing-stone."

The last statement was a misstep, for it was clearly false. Fingon felt Feanor's laugh in his mind. _You ask me to stop the desires of your soul?_

"Just get out of my head."

__

You are braver than your father. Invitation as well as praise. Fingon felt nameless desires course over him, and named them false, and did not move.

As if invoked by Feanor's words, Fingolfin finally appeared. He strode confidently across the courtyard to stand in its centre, next to Fingon, facing Feanor. Behind him followed all the members of his house: Anaire, Turgon, Aredhel, even little Argon, each one bearing a newly forged sword. Each brought several guards with them. They formed a half-circle around the edge of the courtyard. Aredhel hesitated briefly, looking to her friend Celegorm, but when he did not acknowledge her she took her place in the line.

Alone between his two sons, surrounded on all sides, Feanor looked strangely frail. Fingolfin placed his right hand on Fingon's shoulder, and smiled broadly, showing his teeth.

So this was why Fingolfin had delayed so long. He had needed the time to organize his entrance. The time Fingon had bought him. _In times of battle, a son is also a weapon._ This weapon seemed to have served its purpose. Fingon bowed to his father, and ran back to his chambers.

Maedhros was still there, looking blankly out the window. "Why did you leave me alone out there?" Fingon snapped.

"What could I have done against my father?"

"What can any of us do against your father?" _A hero needs help from no one,_ the thought came, in a voice like Feanor's. _You are braver than your father._ "But never mind that. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"Somewhere your father and my father aren't."

"And just where would that be?" Maedhros finally turned around, and the exhaustion was visible in his eyes. Fingon reached over to touch his friend's arm to steady him - and a shock of arousal shot through him, vivid as the lusts Feanor had planted in his mind. _Or drawn out of it._ He jerked his hand back and wiped it roughly against the cloth of his leggings.

"There is only one place where we can be free of our fathers," Maedhros continued, in real or feigned ignorance of what had just taken place. "Only Beleriand. And we need my father's help to get there." Maedhros paused, as if trying to will himself courage. "And that means I need to go back to him."

"Do you want to?"

Maedhros looked out the window for the space of a long heartbeat, and then back again. "Yes. I shouldn't. But, I do."

Fingon let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. "Well, then, I suppose you will."

*

Feanor's hair was unbound, and his eyes were dark, dark like the star-lit skies in places beyond the light of the trees. The tension in his stance revealed each line of his muscled body. Fingolfin appraised his brother as they faced each other, taking in the tall red plume, the form-fitting leather armor, the sword that was a perfect match to his own. He placed his hand at his waist, where his sword-belt hung. How had he never noticed that when he stood at his full height he was the taller of the two?

"You have forged swords in secret," Fingolfin said, pointedly looking down. "You seek to drive me from Tirion. You will answer before the Valar, and Finwe our father."

Feanor looked side to side, at the weapons surrounding him, and then back to Fingolfin. "Give me back my son."

"Your madness endangers him." Fingolfin's gaze moved from his brother's eyes to his chest, his arms, and his hands. He knew they would be hot to the touch. _I have been touched by fire. I am aflame._ Fingolfin felt the fire, and knew it to be in himself. He took Feanor's hands and brought them to his chest, where the green stone lay, resting Feanor's fingers against the stone he had forged. "We are one, brother," Fingolfin said. "Let there be peace between us."

Feanor left his hands on the stone for a moment, and then lifted them slowly away. "I do not offer peace," he said, softly, "nor do you seek it. I fear neither the Valar nor our father. Only return Maedhros to me."

A breath. Eyes met, and held, neither taking nor giving.

"He comes, Father," Maglor said, the only words he had spoken. 

Maedhros crossed the line of Fingolfinian guards to step into the circle. Then he turned back to Fingon, who stood still at the doorway of the house. "Bring me my sword, the one we forged yesterday," he called. Fingon nodded, and ran off.

"Do you return with me?" Feanor asked.

"In a moment," Maedhros said. 

Feanor turned back to Fingolfin, his mouth twitching. "You have something else that is mine." He placed his hands again on the green stone that Fingolfin wore. It blazed at his touch. A swift tug, and it fell into his grasp. Then he reached back with both hands to clasp it firmly around his own neck. It burned brightly there, casting shadows of green light around the courtyard. 

Fingolfin reached for it instinctively, and then returned his hand to his side. "We will meet in Finwe's court."

"We will."

By that time, Maedhros had his sword. He lifted it above his head, and all eyes turned to him. Then, he grabbed it by both ends, and bent it across his knee. Fingolfin watched in amazement. Everyone knew Maedhros was strong in body, the strongest of all his people, but to break forged steel? Maedhros continued, bending the sword until it was beyond use. Then he threw it on the floor. "Did you think I would bear this against my cousins?" The silence in the courtyard carried even Maedhros's soft voice.

"No," said Feanor, "I did not. Shall we go?"

Maedhros nodded, and took his place next to his father and brothers. "I will return," he said to Fingon.

"Of course you will," Fingon answered.

Fingolfin watched as they moved away. _I have faced the fire, and it does not burn._ He had lost the stone, but it had been an encumbrance, binding him to Feanor in a way that did not give strength. And Maedhros had shown that Fingolfin had a power of his own, subtler than his brother's perhaps, but potent nonetheless. If the hand that can bend a sword is strong, the voice that the wielder of that hand will hear is stronger still. Maedhros had forged swords at Fingolfin's demand, and denied his father his complete loyalty. If words were stronger than swords, Fingolfin knew that he could face Feanor before Finwe, and emerge victorious.

*

Argon and Aredhel clasped hands and cheered. Turgon smiled. Even Anaire looked relieved. And Fingolfin blazed, as if he had won a great triumph.

Well, Fingon reflected, if his father did not have the wit to understand everything that had just happened, he was certainly not going to explain it to him. As strong as Maedhros was, he could scarcely have bent Feanorian steel. By breaking a sword, Maedhros had shown not only his unwillingness to fight against the Fingolfinians, but the weakness of the weapons he had forged on their behalf. He had brought his safe return home with the revelation that his betrayal of his house was less complete than it had seemed.

__

We are pieces in a game, Maedhros and I, in a mad game of strategy played between our fathers. But if pieces on a board could think, could feel, then perhaps they could move in ways not intended by the players. Perhaps they would want not to be on different sides.

Fingon had his own sword, the white-blue blade Ringil. Maedhros had forged it for him in the forge-fire of the Feanorians, and it could not be bent by any hand. One day, he would wield it against a real enemy, alongside his friend. In Beleriand.

 

 


	12. Chapter 11: Sharper Than Thy Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Fingolfin and Feanor.

He did not wait until the appointed time, for that would have been foolish. In such a battle, against an enemy far stronger, one must use whatever weak weapons one may possess. So Fingolfin strapped his new-forged sword to his belt, covered it with a long cloak, and set out to arrive just before the meeting at the court of King Finwe.

On the stone arch above the gateway to the court were drawn the emblems of Finwe and his three sons. They were not new, but Fingolfin paused to look at them. Feanor had made his first, shortly after he had forged his Silmarils. His sign was a gleaming jewel of multicoloured fire, radiating light on all directions. Finwe had chosen his in response, for if any are to have signs so must the king. His sign was simple fire alone, pulsing out in a circle. _It is the fire of the one_ he had said, but once he called another by that name. Little Finarfin had chosen his next, light with no fire, silver as well as gold, as if to flaunt his Teleri wife. Fingolfin followed his father's lead, and took the flame. _For Feanor is not the only fire._

"Father," Fingolfin whispered, trying to feel like a child approaching a parent, but all he could remember was Finwe's dark eyes, dark like Feanor. _All the Noldor burn, but Feanor burns brightest of all, with the very fire of the one._ Fingolfin gripped the hilt of his sword through his clothes, held it for a moment, then released it and strode into the hall.

Finwe smiled, as if at an overenthusiastic boy. "Wise-child," he said, "you are welcome. What..." Before he could continue, Fingolfin was at his side, kneeling.

"Father," he said, "I must speak with you before the council."

Finwe put his hand on Fingolfin's shoulder. His hand was long, with narrow fingers, just like Fingolfin's own. But larger. It must be larger. Fingolfin bent his head. In smallness there is also power.

"I must speak of your son Feanor," Fingolfin continued. "He has done an evil deed, forging weapons in secret."

"Ah, Wise-child," Finwe said. "You are so quick to see evil. But Feanor, Feanor is quick to take power, for the fire that burns in him is too strong to be contained." Fingolfin clenched his jaw as Finwe spoke, knowing what was coming. "It is the fire of the one."

Fingolfin forced himself to go on. He had not expected Finwe to listen to him, nor did it matter that he would not. He only needed to speak, and to continue speaking until the appointed time. "Feanor has corrupted my son, stealing his loyalty, so that he is now one with those who speak against the Valar."

"There is no corruption in Feanor," said Finwe calmly, explaining. "And Fingon is old enough to converse with his uncle. I would not see suspicion between my children."

There. Footsteps nearing the door. Fingolfin raised his voice, knowing that these were the words history would hear. "King and father," he exclaimed, "will you not restrain the pride of our brother, Curufinwe, who is called the Spirit of Fire all too truly? By what right does he speak for all our people, as if he were King?" Finwe opened his mouth, but Fingolfin rose to his feet and continued as loudly as he could. "It was you who long ago spoke before the Quendi, bidding them accept the summons of the Valar to Aman. It was you that led the Noldor upon the long road through the perils of Middle-earth to the light of Eldamar. If you do not now repent of it, at least you still have two sons who honour your words."

And then it was done. Feanor was in the room, his eyes darker than the angry red plume of his helmet. He looked from Fingolfin, to Finwe, and back. "So it is," he said. He moved towards Fingolfin then, slowly, until they were face to face. "My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters."

It was as if all the world was reduced to Feanor's breath, soft, hot, demanding. And his eyes, alight with anger, and with something far beyond it. Fingolfin wished suddenly that Finwe would speak, but he knew that he would not, that any escape from Feanor would need to come from his own soul.

And did he want escape? There was a weakness now in Feanor that he had not thought to see, and the fire was his own. "Brother," he almost spoke, almost loud enough to hear. Then his hand found again the sword-hilt at his waist. Deliberately, Fingolfin turned away from Feanor, and took one step closer to Finwe.

A clang of metal behind him, and Fingolfin smiled, for victory was near.

"Go and take your rightful place!" Feanor shouted.

__

This is my rightful place. Fingolfin bowed before Finwe, as low as he could, not looking behind him. Without a word he strode out to the gates, knowing that Feanor would follow. The house of Finwe was in the great square beneath the Mindon, and many were assembled there. At the gates Fingolfin waited, and then turned to face Feanor. It was a dance, almost a seduction, and yet it seemed as if the steps had been made before time. The crowd was behind Fingolfin, so the assembled lords could see Feanor's face but not his own. 

Feanor glanced from side to side, looking at the crowd, but returned always to Fingolfin, as Fingolfin had always returned. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

__

Following you. I will always follow you, brother. "Taking," he said. They were close again, closer than they had been before, whispering words from one mouth to another. Fingolfin had a sudden memory of the kiss before the Silmarils, the demanding touch of Feanor's lips that he had not been able to understand, and in that moment it made sense, although not in the way it seemed. He placed his right palm on Feanor's chest. The metal of Feanor's breastplate was not cold but soft and yielding, and it seemed to ripple around his outstretched fingers. "Taking," he said again. "Your inheritance. Your place." _Your fire._ "Your father." _None burns brighter than the fire of Feanor._ "Your son." Fingolfin drew his cloak back slightly to reveal the sword he wore, unmistakably of Maedhros's making. Then he returned his hand to its place on Feanor's chest. It rose and fell quickly beneath his hand. Fingolfin bent forward. His lips brushed the point of Feanor's ear. "Son of Miriel," he said.

Feanor suddenly, convulsively pushed him away. Fingolfin still had enough presence of mind to fall on his back, landing at Feanor's feet. He reached inside his cloak, as if to draw his sword. A flash, and Feanor's sword was at Fingolfin's breast. The next step in the dance.

Both were breathing hard. The thick point of Feanor's sword joined them, hand to breast once more. "See, half-brother," Feanor said finally, "this is sharper than your tongue." The crowd drew closer. Fingolfin was tempted to run his hands up the sword, to show he did not fear it, but for the sake of the watching crowd he refrained. Instead, he did not relent his intent gaze from Feanor. The armor shifted, and he saw the green stone at Feanor's neck. _Ah, brother, as you sought to bind you yourself are bound._ Fingolfin mouthed a kiss.

"Try but once more to usurp my place," Feanor continued, weakly, lowering his sword, "and the love of my father, and maybe this sword will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls."

It was a vain threat, of course, unless the one Feanor meant was himself. Fingolfin knew that if Feanor had been truly able to kill him he would have fallen to his death from the cliff many years ago.

The crowd meanwhile began to whisper: _swords...madness...danger...swords._ Feanor did not move as Fingolfin rose to his feet. _Madness. He is mad. He is mad._

It was some time before Fingolfin noticed that his father had emerged, and was standing silent, as if far away. Was this the one who has led the Noldor so bravely, now so without power in the face of his children? Fingolfin went to stand next to him. "Father," he said, "one loyal son remains to you." Finwe did not answer, and his eyes were still on Feanor, and on the crowd that whispered his name. 

The trial after that was inevitable. Feanor stood in the Ring of Doom and told a fantastic story about a demon voice, strange whispers, treasonous rumors, a force that craved his Silmarils. Tulkas set forth and sought such a spirit, but could not find it. He brought back an even stranger story, that this spirit had become a cloud. And it seemed to be so, for the light of the trees had dimmed. But as Fingolfin watched Feanor in the circle, answering calmly, submitting himself to the Valar, the trees were not all that had lost their light. When the Valar proclaimed exile on Feanor, he accepted it without comment or argument. Then Finwe stepped into the circle, head bowed. "I accept exile along with my firstborn," he said. He took off his crown and placed it on the floor, as if it were nothing to him. Feanor still did not speak.

__

Am I the dark cloud that has dimmed the light of the fire? But what else had been his intent? "I will release my brother," Fingolfin called out, hoping it would make a difference, knowing it would not. Feanor did not even look at him as he set off to begin his journey northward, and Finwe spared only one glance at his second son.

When they were out of sight, Mandos lifted the thin circlet of gold that had been Finwe's crown and handed it to Fingolfin. "This is your judgement," he said.

"Judgement?" Fingolfin asked. The metal was cold in his hands.

"Did you believe you would not be judged?" Mandos said. Then he too was gone, leaving Fingolfin alone.

Fingolfin held the crown for a long time before placing it on his head. But it did not warm, and the gold was dull without fire. 

 

  


*****

  


Notes:

Some dialogue is taken from Silmarillion 7: Of the Silmarils, and somewhat adapted.

The site that has the symbols of the various houses is unfortunately down, but you can find most of them on Ithilwen's homepage:

  


http://www.geocities.com/ithilwen2001/index.html

'Wise-child' is a play on Fingolfin's name, which means 'wise Finwe'.

This chapter is dedicated to Maeve, for never ceasing to ask for it. 


End file.
